


5 Times They Try Something New +1 Time Vanilla Hits The Spot

by penlex



Series: early and unprepared [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5 Times, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Cock Warming, Kink Discovery, Light BDSM, M/M, Marking, Objectification, Praise Kink, Sub!Mickey, Temperature Play, Under-negotiated Kink, Wax Play, dom!Ian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-24
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-03-08 20:23:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3222236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/penlex/pseuds/penlex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five chapters of kinky porn, plus a final chapter where our boys make sweet, sweet, missionary love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. That Time With The Hot Wax

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place after the 'drop fics, so Ian and Mickey are fully aware of what they're doing in this one (even if they probably should scene negotiate more).
> 
> This work will not be season 5 canon compliant.
> 
> There is one "something new" in each chapter that will likely not be revisited in the others. All chapters will have a note saying what the highlighted kink is so that you can skip chapters if needed. There's no real plot to follow, so you won't miss anything.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian wants to leave a mark on Mickey's pretty skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something New: wax play.  
> Other kinks: D/s obvi, minor sensory deprivation (Mickey is instructed to keep his eyes closed for the duration of the scene), marking.

Mickey's in the floaty place between sleep and wakefulness (this is something he's generally unused to, more regularly either dead to the world or ready to fight someone, but in recent months he's become familiar and comfortable with all sorts of floaty places, so he's alright to stay here for a while if life will permit him to.) Mickey is lying on his belly, face burrowed into the pillow and arms burrowed underneath it, the sheet draped weightlessly over his bottom half. He's not covered by anything else, but Ian's presence to his right keeps him warm and lends the air of the room a coziness that Mickey will never tell anyone about since he’d sound like he was practicing lines for a fucking Nicholas Sparks movie.

Ian isn't floating like Mickey is. Mickey can smell the smoke of his cigarette and hear him move every now and then. A low, pleasured hum rumbles out of Mickey's throat when Ian brushes a firm hand down his bare back (he's discovered a lot of things about himself in his time with Ian, including but not limited to how he apparently likes to be pet like a cat).

“You have really pretty skin,” Ian says, genuinely, his voice sliding smoothly into the soft, thick atmosphere. Then his tone takes on a teasing edge to add, “At least when you bother to clean it.”

“Fuck off,” Mickey responds lazily, his own voice both muffled by the pillow and slurred slightly with a heavy sense of contentment (another feeling that he’s become increasingly more intimate with). Ian chuckles softly, drags his hand back up Mickey’s spine to rub for a few seconds in the space between his shoulder blades before stroking back down to the small of his back. Ian repeats his motions as they lapse back into their previous silence. It’s like a half-assed massage, and for all its simplicity it’s nice enough that Mickey rounds his shoulders to press himself into Ian’s steady touch.

After a moment, Ian murmurs, almost as if he’s not sure he really wants Mickey to hear, “Would be prettier with something on it.” Mickey pauses for a long time before he responds, because Ian obviously doesn’t mean like… a shirt or a blanket or something. His breath catches in his throat for just a second, his body tensing pleasantly with the weird combination of excitement and nervousness that he always gets when Ian says that kind of shit.

Finally, Mickey wonders, “…Like what?”

“Hmm,” Ian hedges, his voice more certain as he gets that rush of confidence that Mickey loves to see (the way he moves, the way he speaks, the way he can be powerful even doing nothing, he’s so fucking hot, _Christ_ ). The hesitation before his answer is obviously feigned, but that’s its purpose. What would be the point in making Mickey wait if he didn’t know Ian was doing it intentionally? He doesn’t hold out on Mickey for very long this time though, digging his nails in on his hand’s next trek upward and, hint given, declares, “Something red.”

Mickey swallows hard, licks his lips and savors how his insides get hot and shivery. It’s a vague statement, but the slight pain of being deliberately scratched makes the implication clear. Something red sounds pretty nice. Mickey trusts Ian’s taste in these things.

“Okay,” he says. He hears Ian shift restlessly, and senses that the source of his movement is his hips, that he’s turned on just by Mickey’s acquiescence, which of course makes Mickey feel sexy as hell. So he plays it up. “I bet I look pretty good in red. Bet you know the perfect shade, too.” It’s corny as hell, doesn’t make much sense, but there’s a low noise riding on Ian’s next exhale so it obviously hit the mark. Mickey’s own hips shift downwards as Ian sits up.

“Close your eyes,” he directs, and Mickey sasses him, “Yes, Sir.” It’s sarcastic of course, but not as sarcastic as it could be. Still, Ian flicks him on the wing of his shoulder blade in retaliation.

“ _Ow_ ,” Mickey whines petulantly, but he turns his face deeper into his pillow and shuts his eyes as he was told.

The world is dark now, and Mickey’s anticipation spikes with every second he can’t tell what Ian is doing or planning to do. Exactly what shade of red does Ian have in mind, anyway? Fuck. Ian kneels behind Mickey, brushes the sheet aside and onto the floor. Just the cool air on Mickey’s body, knowing that Ian is looking at him and likes what he sees, makes Mickey hot inside and out. With Ian, it doesn’t take much.

It’s just further proof that when Ian slides his hands up the inside of Mickey’s legs and pushes them apart when he gets to Mickey’s thighs, Mickey can’t help but let out a quiet moan. The power and intimacy of Ian physically positioning Mickey how he wants him is like a dose of ecstasy every time. Ian adjusts his position so that he’s between Mickey’s legs now and goes back to rubbing Mickey’s back, hands just a shade rougher, making Mickey purr (Ian laughs softly at the noise, but Mickey doesn’t care. He knows by now that Ian likes it).

Mickey’s breath catches again when he hears the click of a lighter – what the fuck? He makes a low questioning sound, but Ian only answers him with an amused, “No peaking,” which of course wasn’t a temptation Mickey had until Ian said something about it. He scrunches his face up with the effort it suddenly takes to keep his eyes closed and presses his cheek harder into the pillow. Ian laughs at him again, and Mickey has an urge to flip him off, but doesn’t move. Moments later, Ian leans over Mickey, breathing hot and wet on the back of his neck. Mickey bites his lip, rotates his hips subconsciously – his body thinks it’s about to get fucked (probably will, but not yet). Mickey’s dick throbs and all the air rushes out of him in a reverse gasp when Ian blows on his sensitive ear. Mickey’s close to whimpering, and Ian bites his earlobe with sharp teeth that are no doubt bared in a grin, because he knows how bad Mickey wants it _and_ how long he’ll have to wait.

When Ian sits up again, he warns Mickey, “Gonna be hot.” Mickey bites his lip too slow and the whimper escapes as he squirms around, making aborted thrusts into the mattress, the little bit of friction more tease than anything else, especially since there’s no way Ian wants him to come yet.

“You gonna burn me?” he asks. The slur is back in his voice, but this time because of something different, something kinda better. God, that’ll hurt. Ian will probably put his mouth on it right after, _fuck_. He can’t fucking wait.

“A little,” Ian says mildly. He sounds like he’s concentrating on something else for a second. Then, less mildly, he adds, “Stay still.” It takes some effort to make his hips stop moving, but after he manages that Mickey is as still has his heavy breathing will allow him to be.

“Ready?” Ian asks, and Mickey responds, “Uh-huh,” half affirmation, half moan. Mickey braces himself, something lands lightly on his left shoulder blade, and –

“Hm.”

“No?” Ian checks in cautiously.

“Well,” Mickey admits with disappointment. “It’s warm.” He resists the urge to shrug, remembering the order to stay still. Ian snorts indelicately, and Mickey’s mouth quirks despite how unimpressed he is.

“You sound so enthused,” Ian jokes with a gentle yank on Mickey’s hair.

“Well, excuse the fuck out of me,” Mickey snarks back, grinning now. “I was expecting it to hurt.”

“Oh, I can make it hurt,” Ian assures, a hard edge to his voice signaling that the flirtatious interlude is over. But Mickey knows, at this point, how things work around here. Ian isn’t angry, just playing his part. He’s pretty good at it too, because Mickey’s insides go from ‘in love’ tingly back to ‘horny and scared’ tingly pretty much immediately. Ian brushes off whatever he dropped onto Mickey’s back (it seems to be a little sticky), places a quick kiss on the spot, reminds Mickey, “Don’t move,” and then gets up and leaves. Mickey expresses his disapproval of that action with a childish whine.

“Shut up, you brat,” Ian’s voice scolds (but with the undertone of a smile, sappy bastard) from somewhere close by, definitely still in the room. Mickey hears him rummage for a few seconds before he returns to his position kneeling above and between Mickey’s legs on the bed, and the lighter clicks again. “Just a minute,” he says, so Mickey waits, albeit with very little patience. Eventually, Ian asks again, “Ready?”

“You gonna actually do something this time, Princess?” Mickey sasses, living up to the name Ian called him a second ago, only to grunt in almost-surprise when Ian responds with a flat-handed slap across Mickey’s back.

“Yes or no, douchebag,” he growls, and Mickey gasps out, “ _Yeah_.”

This time it does hurt, sharp and sudden, in the same place as before. Mickey hisses through his teeth first, then moans on the exhale. Mickey’s widest experiences with pain lie in the realm of deep bruises, headaches, hunger, and the soreness of well-used muscles (only one of which ever came from Ian). Pain this localized is new and strange, and really, really good.

He demands, “More,” and Ian quips back, “Obviously. You think I’d be done after just that? _No way._ ” Another drop lands on Mickey, right next to the other one, maybe over lapping it a little bit. It burns badly enough to make Mickey flinch away from it involuntarily, but the motion also happens to push his hips down into the mattress again and the dual sensations make him gasp. Ian makes a line of heat across Mickey’s left shoulder, and then one down his ribs on the same side. By the time Ian gets down to where the cage of bone gives way to softness, Mickey is panting, his hips rocking, back arched, hot all over. He barely notices the heat of whatever Ian is putting on him anymore, only the sudden, bright flashes of pain – starting out sharp and gradually fading to a soft, tingling burn. The longer it goes on, the higher and higher Mickey floats, until eventually he’s out of touch with the pillow, the mattress, his own irritating brain. All Mickey can feel is Ian – Ian’s presence behind him and Ian’s actions, and how much Ian loves him and wants him.

“There we go,” says Ian, and then groans deeply at Mickey’s yelp when he drops some of the hot stuff on the sensitive area right between Mickey’s shoulder blades.

“Fuck me,” Mickey growls, and Ian laughs at him again.

“Patience,” he chides, all too amused, and keeps right on doing what he’s doing. Mickey whimpers and hisses, unaware of how he’s humping the mattress until Ian grips the back of his neck roughly and snarls quietly, “Didn’t I tell you to stay still?” Mickey’s whine this time is genuine, but his body takes over and obeys even while his mind thinks there’s no way he can.

“Good boy,” Ian praises, and Mickey says, “Fuck me.”

The torture continues, and every time Ian pauses Mickey begs him, “Fuck me.” Ian presses his hard-on against Mickey’s ass, but he doesn’t put his tools down and concede to Mickey’s request, won’t even rub on him much despite Mickey doing his best to encourage him to.

Ian makes vertical and horizontal lines of heat all the way across Mickey’s back, until finally he makes it to the end of Mickey’s ribs on the right side. There’s a clatter on their bedside table and then Ian is leaning over Mickey, kissing and biting at his ears and neck, pulling on his hair, rolling his hips sharply forward into Mickey’s ass, dick sliding between Mickey’s cheeks easily because it’s slick with Ian’s precome.

“Still want me to fuck you?” Ian asks, half desperate.

“Fucking _please_ ,” says Mickey, and Ian only takes the time to growl “Fuck, yes,” before he’s lubing up his fingers and sliding two into Mickey’s hole. Mickey hoists himself up onto his hands and knees and hisses when the movement pulls at the stripes of tenderness across his back, which feel tight now. Catlike once again, Mickey stretches his arms out in front of him, arching his back, and pushing his ass up into the air. Ian laughs again, but it’s breathless now, and his rhythm falters before he adds another finger.

“Fucking _fuck me_ , Gallagher!” he snaps when Ian starts rubbing at his prostate, flexing his back muscles to keep the hurt going. “Fuck,” Ian mutters and then finally – _finally_ – he’s pressing in. They both groan loudly, Mickey relishing in the additional burn – a different kind but just as good. Ian’s gasps sound relieved, and it’s a boost to Mickey’s pleasure to know it was just as hard for him to wait for this as it was for Mickey.

Ian fucks him hard and fast, his dick dragging over Mickey’s prostate on almost every thrust. He gives him the reach around he always does, because half of the fun for him is just taking care of Mickey, which is pretty fucking nice from Mickey’s position.

“You close?” Ian asks, words garbled by his own bliss. Mickey does his best to nod, figures Ian must get the message from the way he groans. Ian gives Mickey one last love bite on the join of neck and shoulder before he sits up and rakes the nails of his free hand across Mickey’s abused back. Mickey cries out, writhing as his body doesn’t know if it wants closer to the pain or away, and comes hard. If he hadn’t kept his eyes shut this whole time, he’s certain his vision would have blacked out anyway.

“Good boy,” Ian commends again, and then loses his rhythm as he follows Mickey over the edge. Mickey whimpers quietly when Ian lands on him, putting the heat of his body against his burns and warming them up again.

“Okay,” Ian says as he struggles to get up again, voice soft and slow in the afterglow. “Let’s get this stuff off you.” Mickey hums in agreement. He doesn’t know what the stuff is, doesn’t care if it’s on or off, but is too warm and sleepy and fuzzy inside the head to tell Ian it doesn’t matter to him. Ian works just as methodically cleaning Mickey up as he was putting the pain on. He peels the still-warm substance off of Mickey’s skin gently. He gets up then, and when his weight dips the mattress again Mickey hears the camera click of his phone.

“Open your eyes, baby,” Ian orders, flopping down on his elbows next to Mickey and angling the screen of his phone so Mickey can see. The photo is of Mickey, boneless and naked, with Ian’s name written in light red across his back.

“Much prettier, right?” says Ian with a shit-eating grin. Mickey rolls his eyes, and then lets them shut again.

“You’re a fucking dick,” he tells Ian exhaustedly, and Ian giggles adorably, and kisses Mickey on the tip of his nose as he drifts away.


	2. That Time Mickey Just Wants Ian's Cock In His Mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically 4,000 words of Mickey being enormously hungry for Ian's penis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something new: cockwarming.  
> Other kinks: blowjobs. So many blowjobs. Like a blowjob every paragraph. Mickey has no chill. Ofc, the usual D/s dynamic, plus a little objectification, a tiny bit of dirty talk, praise, etc. Good stuff.

Mickey’s always had a thing about having a dick in his mouth. Well, two things. Two kinda opposite things. The first thing is rooted in the way he was raised. In the Milkovich household (as in many others), the dick was a symbol of power and domination, a weapon, masquerading as manhood. If you had a smaller dick than someone else you were less of a man, and if you had somebody else’s dick inside you then you weren’t a man at all. That kinda shit can really make a guy hate having a dick in his mouth. Or at least feel ashamed that he doesn’t.

So that’s the first thing. It’s not very nice. Sometimes it still creeps up on Mickey and fucks with him – Ian does have a bigger dick than him after all, and here they are, Ian dominating him.

But Mickey meant it when he said liking what he likes don’t make him a bitch. It’s true. Mickey is exactly the man he is, whatever that includes. According to Debbie and Svetlana there’s not any such thing as a bitch, anyway. It’s just a construct. Whatever that means.

The other thing Mickey has about having a dick in his mouth is that he really fucking loves it. He likes to have his mouth fucked, rough or gentle, doesn’t matter. He likes the pressure on his lips and the weight on his tongue, likes the feeling of balls against his chin. He couldn’t explain why but it just feels damn nice. Mickey is also into the smell of a man’s crotch. After this long fucking each other, Mickey could probably tell Ian he smelled like balls and Ian would know to take it as a compliment. Maybe that’s weird. Mickey doesn’t really give a shit.

Mickey also has a thing about being on his knees. Well, two things. Basically the same two things. Whatever.

Mickey likes when Ian is sitting and his legs block everything else from Mickey’s perception like blinders. He likes when Ian is standing and he leans over Mickey just a little bit so that his groin curves up into his abdomen and his hips are like a cradle for Mickey’s head. He likes when Ian pets his cheeks or runs his hands through Mickey’s hair. He also likes when Ian pulls his hair, sending tiny jolts of pain through Mickey’s scalp and to his cock and balls. He likes when Ian holds him close, by the back of his head or by his neck. He likes when he gets to suck Ian’s dick at his own pace, and also when Ian moves his head around like he’s just a fleshlight, and also when Ian holds him still and all the movement is in his hips as he fucks Mickey’s mouth.

Mickey doesn’t particularly care for the taste or feel of jizz, always gags a little when he swallows it, but getting to keep Ian’s dick in his mouth for a little bit longer outweighs that unpleasantness. Sometimes Mickey keeps sucking and licking at Ian even after Ian’s already come down his throat, because he just can’t help it. Ian only allows it for a second, but he’ll pull at Mickey’s lips with his thumb on those days and Mickey will drag his tongue over it, and then the rest of his fingers and his palm, until Ian’s hand is nice and wet for him to jerk Mickey off with.

It always takes Mickey until their next fuck to stop thinking about how different Ian’s spent prick in his mouth feels from when he’s fully hard, though.

When they’re not in a hurry, Mickey sucks Ian off in the tub before they shower in the morning, licks him a little extra after, and then Ian makes Mickey wait to come too until after they’re all washed off and he’s been teased and he keeps thinking the water is going to go cold any second and he won’t get to, and then Ian presses Mickey up against the tiles with his hands flat by his sides and kisses him slow and gives him a handie that’s just as slow, almost too slow. Mickey always comes really hard that way, feeling it in his toes and the tips of his fingers, and going boneless and breathless with it. Even still, with it ending at the same glacial pace it started, it’s always oddly unsatisfying (that’s part of the point, no doubt).

Sometimes they don’t fuck again until they do the same thing the next morning, so Mickey has the feeling of Ian slowly softening on his tongue in his mind – in his mouth – all day long and all night too.

That happened yesterday, so today as Mickey gradually begins to come into wakefulness the first thing he notices (after his morning wood pressed into the mattress) is the fact that he is fucking salivating. He had a few different sexy dreams throughout the night, most of them simply of him blowing Ian or Ian fucking his mouth, but the one he had just in time to surface into the real world was of him licking and sucking gently at Ian’s soft dick.

Ian, on his side of the bed, is already fully awake, and has been. He’s got a cigarette in one hand, half smoked, and the other is writing in a journal propped on his knee. He looks over when Mickey takes a deeper breath, smiles.

“G’Morning,” he greets.

“Want your dick in my mouth,” says Mickey. Ian laughs, a little surprised, mostly charmed. He directs Mickey to lie on his back and then holds him tightly by the hair, slides his hard-on between Mickey’s lips, and pistons his hips fast and rough while Mickey drools helplessly all over his own face. Ian has earned himself a sheen of sweat along with his orgasm by the time he finishes. He stays where he is to catch his breath, his body continuing to rock minutely with the force of his panting. Mickey’s own cock is throbbing painfully and he feels like he could come at the brush of a feather, but he’s not really a big fan of touching himself and he doesn’t want Ian to move. It doesn’t take long for Ian to get completely flaccid, still winded and therefore still sitting heavily on Mickey with his cock in Mickey’s mouth. It feels a little strange, but Mickey’s dick sure isn’t confused about it. It twitches and leaks all over his belly. He moans out loud (hearing himself muffled by Ian’s soft prick making his hips lift desperately into the air). Ian must take it as a protest, because he huffs out an apology and climbs off, back to his side of the bed.

“You wanna come?” Ian asks, gesturing between Mickey’s slightly spread legs. This isn’t a question Mickey has ever had to think about – either Ian decided ahead of time that Mickey isn’t allowed to and doesn’t bother asking, they’re not playing that particular game that time around, or the answer is an unequivocal _fuck yes!_ and Ian has only posed the question to remind Mickey who’s in charge. This time though, Mickey lets his hips squirm from side to side for a few more seconds and then takes a deep, steadying breath, stills, and says, “Nah.” Ian lifts an amused eyebrow at the affected casualness, but he doesn’t comment.

In the shower, before Ian can turn the water on, Mickey gets down on his knees at his feet like usual. Both of Ian’s eyebrows go up at that, before he’s shaking his head and telling Mickey, “I’m not gonna be able to get hard again so soon after that, Mick,” and tugs Mickey into standing by the shoulder. Mickey is too frustrated to spit out that that’s the fucking point.

Mickey suffers a lot at work. He’s pretty sure Kev notices that something’s up but knows better than to ask what.

Ian is sitting on the couch playing _Destruction Derby_ by himself when Mickey gets home. He pauses the game immediately to grin at Mickey and then blow him a cheeky kiss, to which Mickey raises a finger. Ian only laughs his usual smitten laugh, Mickey unable to control his half-grinning response.

“Dinner’ll be ready in…” Ian cranes his head backwards to look into the kitchen without moving his body. “Three minutes.”

“Why don’t you leave the baking to the actual wife around here?” Mickey asks gruffly, shucking his coat and gloves. His comment is accompanied by the unrealistic revving sounds of Ian’s game starting back up.

“Don’t see her anywhere, do you?” he says. “Besides, maybe I like providing for my man.” The fact that he doesn’t budge when the timer on the oven goes off belies that though. But he plants a kiss on the side of Mickey’s face when Mickey brings the sheet of boxed taquitos over so Mickey kind of forgives him.

They each have ten taquitos (they’re still growing boys), and after dinner Ian offers Mickey the other controller but Mickey refuses it. He just wants to watch Ian. Ian who is leaning back comfortably into the cushions of the couch, whose arm muscles are still clearly defined even though they’re not really doing a whole lot of work, whose jeans fit him so nicely, whose legs are spread in his relaxation and are making the perfect V for Mickey to kneel in…

Before too long of his staring session, Mickey’s hard and hot between his own legs. Like he said, it doesn’t take much with Ian. He gets up and rinses his mouth out in the bathroom (there once was an incident with cayenne pepper that no one wants repeated), and then calls out to Ian, “You want a beer?” Ian only grunts, concentrating on beating the computer. Mickey takes it as an affirmative and grabs two sweating brown bottles from the fridge (Svetlana gives Mickey the gift of no aluminum aftertaste in exchange for days off). He flops back down on the couch next to Ian, setting the beers onto the coffee table with identical glass-on-wood clunks. Then, after a few more torturous seconds of just watching Ian, Mickey finally does what he’s been wanting to and slides to his knees, slipping quietly between Ian’s legs and going for the redhead’s fly.

Ian huffs a laugh and pauses his game again, joking with sparkling eyes, “If you wanted dessert you could’ve just said.” Mickey gives him the most unimpressed look he can possibly muster, which of course only earns him another chuckle. “Alright, alright,” Ian concedes with feigned reluctance. “Lemme just turn this off.”

Mickey claps his hands onto Ian’s thighs as Ian tries to get up to shut down the PlayStation and Ian freezes like a deer in the headlights.

“Chill, Bambi,” Mickey says. “Just… Keep playing.” It’s half order and half plea, and Ian cocks his head and narrows his eyes, trying to suss out what’s the deal. Eventually he just says, “Okay,” and unpauses the game, the stupid artificial revving filling the room again.

Mickey likes the picture made by Ian’s skin slowly coming into view as he undoes his boyfriend’s pants, likes the way his erection jumps up from beneath his underwear like it’s excited, loves the wet sound his own mouth makes as he opens it wide and fills it with cock. He loves the hitch in Ian’s breath and the subtle tensing of his thighs, the sound of skidding tires coming from the TV telling of Ian’s distraction.

They’re both a little confused at first when Mickey doesn’t start blowing Ian, just gently holds his cock in his mouth, but eventually Ian seems to get used to the warm wetness around him. He relaxes back into his game, his hands holding the controller coming to rest on top of Mickey’s head, as if Mickey with his face in Ian’s crotch and his mouth full of Ian’s dick is just the natural order of things. It makes Mickey’s blood boil, energy building up in his hips and groin, but he forces himself to stay still, and only gently suckle when he really can’t help it.

Mickey’s jaw aches, but he’s proud when Ian sounds a little breathless at game over and he announces, “I won, Mick.” Mickey does his best to give him a sarcastic, “Congratulations” around his mouthful, and Ian moans at the vibrations. He drops the controller to the side and slides his hands into Mickey’s hair, rhythmically tensing and relaxing his hips. “I think,” he tells Mickey conversationally, “I deserve a celebratory orgasm. What do you think?”

Mickey starts to pull off of Ian’s dick so that he can give Ian a real answer, but Ian gets the back of his neck in a bruising grip and presses him down firmly until his nose is resting right up against Ian’s groin. Mickey has to swallow convulsively around the hard length sliding down his throat so that he doesn’t choke, and Ian is forced to gasp and groan at the sensations before he can speak again.

“Ah-ah- _ah_ ,” he says, his tone scolding but without real weight. “If you want to speak you’ll have to figure out how to do it right where you are.” Mickey moans, loud and helplessly, and his throat is stretched enough around Ian’s cock that vocalizing hurts a little, which of course only serves to make Mickey even hotter. This is so close – _so close_ – to what he wants, and good in its own right anyway. He’s waiting eagerly for Ian to start fucking his mouth, and when Ian doesn’t he whines, his hips snapping forward once before he can get himself under control again.

“Well?” Ian prods insistently. “What do you think, Mickey? Do you think I should reward myself and use your pretty mouth like a toy?” Mickey whines again, his sore throat flexing weakly around Ian’s prick, turning Ian’s voice into a gasp (though still an authoritative one) when he says, “ _Answer me._ ”

Mickey’s attempt at a “yes, please” is definitely not intelligible, but Ian takes it, moaning, “Oh _God_ , good boy, good boy, _fuck_.” He lets his head drop heavily onto the back of the couch and grips Mickey’s head at the sides and holds him still as he thrusts up into his mouth.

Ian keeps up the mantra of praise all through the face fucking. He comes disappointingly quickly, but that’s understandable after all that time of being in Mickey’s wet mouth. Reluctantly, Mickey begins to pull back, his mouth feeling weird and empty the more of Ian’s cock slips out of it. He wants to stay where he is, with Ian’s warm skin feeling so nice against Mickey’s tenderized lips, heavy and limp on his tongue, the taste of Ian’s come thick in his throat. But he knows that Ian gets oversensitive so he resigns himself to completed blowjobs proceeded directly by mouth-to-cock distancing. But, to Mickey’s delighted surprise, Ian curls his fists sharply into Mickey’s hair and yanks him back down.

“Last time I checked,” he says blithely, “toys couldn’t move on their own.” Mickey’s heart rate picks up even further, and he allows himself to hope that Ian is going to let him stay here for a while and feel the strange pleasantness of his soft dick in his mouth. Maybe he’ll pet Mickey’s hair, tell him he’s a good boy again, maybe even let him suck a little bit – not too hard, of course, that would hurt and the last thing he ever wants to do is hurt Ian, but just a little, just enough for them both to feel it.

“Yeah,” Ian asks, semi-cautiously. “That’s what you wanted?” Mickey tries to give him a look that says ‘fucking obviously’ but it’s weak as hell because he’s high on being good and wanted and sexy and there’s too much endorphins in his system for him to convincingly look anything other than blissful. Knowing that almost makes the rush take him higher.

“I think I’ll play another game,” Ian tells him, taking the controller back up in his hands and resting them back where they were on top of Mickey’s head. “This time I get to suck you if I win, ‘kay?” Mickey idly hums in agreement as he curiously runs his tongue along the underside of the head of Ian’s penis and dips it gently into the slit, amazed at how different the same body part can feel in a different state. “God, that’s weird,” Ian admits with a shiver. “In a good way, though,” he assures, running a comforting hand through Mickey’s hair before the sounds of fake ass revving start up again and Ian redirects his attention.

The ache in Mickey’s jaw and in his knees build and build until he can’t feel the hurt anymore, only a fuzzy, pins-and-needles sort of feeling inside and out of himself, only really good and not at all like when your arm goes to sleep. There’s just this white noise of pleasure filling him up. He feels attached to Ian like this, like his body is an extension of Ian’s, like he could just sink into Ian and become part of him and nobody would really even notice that much because they’re inseparable anyway. Mickey almost wants someone to walk in the front door and see, want somebody else to _know_ , like he knows, that everything that he is belongs to Ian – his mouth is Ian’s mouth, and his face and his throat and his knees are all Ian’s, and Ian likes to have them, likes to have Mickey for his own.

Distantly, Mickey knows he’s staring up at Ian with stars and clouds in his eyes, and Ian isn’t even looking at him, but that just makes it better. Ian doesn’t need to look at him – Ian knows he’s there and that he’ll stay for as long as Ian wants him to.

Eventually, Ian sets his controller down again and meets Mickey’s eyes. There’s hardly any of that gorgeous light green visible, they’re almost all black, and that’s strange to see when Mickey can feel that Ian isn’t physically aroused. Mickey makes a soft sound, a little confused but a lot happy.

“Wow,” Ian breathes, petting Mickey steadily from his temples down to the base of his skull, sounding pretty high himself. “This is a good one, huh?” Mickey hums in agreement, mostly just because he feels so agreeable and not because he really understand what Ian is saying. He just knows that he feels good and Ian feels good, and that’s all that matters.

“Think you can let go and crawl up into my lap?” Ian wonders. His voice is so soft it almost sounds like an idle query, but Mickey likes to meet every challenge posed to him (or rather, every challenge he perceives has been posed), so he lets Ian’s prick slip slowly out of his mouth. It’s soaked, and slides slickly over Mickey’s already wet chin before falling onto and dampening Ian’s partially clothed thigh. Mickey stares at it distractedly for a few seconds before finally getting to his feet to carefully plant a knee on either side of Ian’s hips on the couch. Ian holds him securely around the waist with both arms and plants chaste little kisses on either side of Mickey’s exhaustedly slack mouth.

“I didn’t win,” Ian tells Mickey softly. There’s regret in his tone, but from the way it’s almost entirely overshadowed by pride lets Mickey know that part isn’t meant for him. “You felt so perfect on me I just didn’t feel like really paying attention to anything else.” He chuckles at himself, shrugs a little, gives Mickey a quick bunny kiss.

“Let’s take care of you now, huh?” he murmurs as he slides one hand, slow and firm and grounding, over Mickey’s hip and to the front of his jeans. Mickey hums again. He’s not sure what Ian’s talking about, but his body seems to know it’s something good from the way his heart races and his palms sweat, and his hair feels like it’s standing up in anticipation.

Ian unsnaps and pulls the zip down on Mickey’s jeans, then tucks his hand inside and presses surely against Mickey’s cock. Mickey cries out sharply, tucking his head tightly into Ian’s neck and squeezing his shoulders hard. He’d been much more caught up in the spacey high feelings that he hadn’t noticed anything else, but now that his attention is brought back to his own dick he realizes it hurts urgently. He bites down hard on Ian’s t-shirt, whimpering, and can’t keep his hips from jerking forward in desperation to get off and then flinching back in sensitivity.

“Yeah,” Ian whispers in sympathy. “You’ve been waiting for a long time today, huh? You’ve been so patient with me, though,” he adds proudly. “This is gonna be so good, Mick, god, I can’t wait to watch you. It’s gonna be so good. You deserve it.”

“ _Ian!_ ” Mickey whines loudly as he clings and his orgasm creeps up. Ian’s right – it’s going to be good, devastatingly so. Mickey’s toes are curled inside his shoes, the arches of his feet already starting to cramp, and he’s not even there yet.

“ _Shh_ ,” Ian soothes, petting down Mickey’s back with his free hand. “You’re so close. Almost there.” Finally, Mickey comes with several aborted shouts, making a mess of Ian’s t-shirt, darkening it and sticking it wetly to his hard abs where the hot jizz lands. Then, with a long, drawn out, exhausted groan, Mickey collapses heavily onto his boyfriend. Both of their cocks are soft now, and they brush against each other periodically with the rise and fall of their breathing. Every now and then Mickey can feel the dampness of his come on Ian seep into his own shirt.

After a few moments of keeping up his petting motions with the hand that isn’t crushed in between them, Ian says in a conversational tone, “So that was really something.” Mickey huffs out the best laugh he has the energy for, which is basically just an amused wheeze. Ian huffs back at him, and they cuddle for a little bit longer. Eventually, Mickey takes a deep breath and turns his head to wipe his disgusting face off on Ian’s shirt. He can sense the face Ian makes at that and grins widely. Then he demands, voice muffled by Ian’s chest and still a little slurred to boot, “Feed me.” Ian laughs out loud at that, and drops a kiss on the crown of Mickey’s head.

“You’re awfully bossy for a sub,” he grouches, with a grin in his voice.

“Fuckin’ feed me,” Mickey repeats. “ _Please_.” Ian laughs again, gives Mickey a very gentle thwap on the back of the head.

“You’re so naughty too,” he says.

“What’re you gonna do about it, big shot?” Mickey snarks back. Ian pushes Mickey up just a little so that he can see his face and looks at him with so much tenderness that Mickey could probably get high off of just that without a scene. He lifts the corner of his shirt (the side that isn’t covered in Mickey’s come) and wipes off the rest of the drool from Mickey’s chin and cheeks and neck with it.

“Nothing right now,” he admits. Then tugs his trapped hand out from between them and slides the other one down until they are both securely gripping the globes of Mickey’s ass. “But maybe tomorrow.”

Mickey grins gleefully, allowing himself to drop back down onto his boyfriend’s comfortable chest, knowing Ian will make them both get up in a minute so that he can make Mickey something to eat and watch him sternly as he serves Mickey practically his body weight in water.

There’s no ‘maybe’ about it.

**Author's Note:**

> look me up on [tumblr](http://redblooded-disadvantage.tumblr.com/) for stale meta n fresh memes


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